Alex Rider Sucks: 2
by Truth-Seeking Cretin
Summary: This is the second in a completely over-the-top series of parodies of Anthony Horowitz's populism and predictability. This should not be viewed by anyone.


Author's Note: Anthony Horowitz owns Alex Rider, not me. Thank God for that. As much as I used to like the Alex Rider books, they soon descended into a kiddie version of 007, and now every one of the books reads the same. So when I was 14 or so, before I found this site, I parodied the first three books South-Park-style: 'Because of the content, it should not be viewed by anyone.' Gratuitous violence, medium sexual references, repeated strong drug references and four-letter words abound, you have now been warned. If you enjoy reading this one, then check out the other two.

Alex Rider's Next Adventure

Alex Rider sat up in bed, perspiration shining on his face. "You're the best." he gasped to the woman lying beside him as he pulled on his trousers. "Seriously, you blew my mind. I love you more than life itself. Now, how much do I owe you?"

The prostitute buttoned up her shirt. "Well, you only took thirty seconds, so by my usual rate of sixty quid an hour you only owe 50p, but I add a 25 percent surcharge on people with exceptionally tiny cocks, a 50 percent surcharge on guys who repulse me, and a 25 percent surcharge on underage people. So make it an even quid."

"Yeah! Fuck you, bitch!" Alex screamed. "You were crap in bed, you don't even deserve that pocket change, especially after watching you nick a line of coke out of my bag!"

The prossy was bewildered. "You offered me a line!"

"Lying slag!" Alex shouted. "I'm not paying!"

The whorehouse's bouncer came running. He knocked on the door lightly, causing several cracks to appear in the stout mahogany. "Everything all right in there?" he called in his booming voice.

"Yes." Alex replied.

"No!" the prossy shouted. "This tosser reckons he's not gonna pay! Get in here and sort it out!"

The bouncer sighed. He opened the door gently with his ham-like fist, accidentally wrenching apart the door and the doorframe. He then bowed down low to walk in.

"What's the problem?" he queried amicably.

"He just got laid and won't pay!" the prossy screamed, pointing at Alex.

"She was insufferably rubbish!" Alex hollered scathingly.

"Hand over the cash!" the bouncer ordered.

"No way!" Alex stormed.

"You want some of this?" the bouncer threatened, flexing a bicep as thick as Alex's torso. "Coz if you do, then don't pay."

"Fine." Alex shot back.

The bouncer swung a wide hook to Alex's face. Alex nimbly ducked under the fist, then sprang aside as the thug lashed out with his size 20 foot. Alex then took a leg up on a bedside table to on top of the giant's knee, from which he vaulted towards his throat and lashed out with both fists below the man's Adam's apple, then landed on the ground lightly behind him. The man suddenly found it impossible to breathe, plus he could no longer see his quarry, so he had no compunctions against collapsing to the floor and vainly trying to regain his breath. Alex then elbow dropped his nads and smashed a glass table over his head for good measure.

"Screw you assholes, I'm going to a whorehouse which will appreciate my business." Alex spat, putting on his shirt. He looked back at the prossy, who was still sitting there open-mouthed at Alex's incredible skill. Specifically, he looked down her shirt and grinned. Then a very very ugly woman walked in through the door.

"Good morning, Alex." Nomoneypenny said crisply. "I see you're up to your usual antics, getting laid, doing drugs and winning fights against impossible odds."

"Damn right." Alex said in a surly voice, his erection shooting downwards at the sight of his minging boss. "Do you have a job for me?"

"Indeed I do." Nomoneypenny responded. "However it wouldn't be wise to talk here. Before we go back to my office and discuss it, I have to ask; why did you beat up this troll?"

"He's the bouncer." Alex answered. "That skank over there tried to overcharge me, so I refused to pay, so he attacked me, so I defended myself."

"How much was she overcharging?"

"I was in there for ages, nearly forty seconds, and she tried to charge me a quid."

"You beat a bouncer into a coma over one lousy coin?"

"Hey, money is scarce with me, especially when you don't pay me anything and I have to spend all the money I skim out of MI6's safe on drugs!" Alex defended himself heatedly.

She rounded on him. "What did you say!"

"Er, nothing." Alex said hastily, and walked to the stairs. "Hey, does it look cloudy? I think it might rain."

* * *

"One lump or two?" asked Nomoneypenny's secretary kindly. 

"Four or five." Alex responded. She paused, then added five sugar cubes into his tea.

"My usual for the morning, thanks, Becky." Nomoneypenny said.

"One tumbler of neat vodka coming up." Becky confirmed and left to fetch it. Alex sipped his mug.

"Ohh, man, what is this shite!" he yelled, spraying sugary tea everywhere.

"It's the finest Earl Grey tea the world has to offer, with your exact number of sugar lumps in." Nomoneypenny informed him icily.

"I thought you two were talking about whiskey with added heroin!" Alex choked, spitting into the bin to clear his taste buds. "Jesus, I asked for a drink, not poison."

"Anyway," Nomoneypenny said loudly, "the job is that you need to investigate this school. It's an exclusive school for troubled rich kids, and recently two of the clients have been found to have large fights with their kids when they come home from it and end up dead in a couple of days. Very suspicious, though it's probably nothing."

"It's obviously something." Alex butted in. "Otherwise this story would be boring, wouldn't it?"

"Shut up, you chodemonger, the reader shouldn't know this yet." she hissed.

"But any non-gimboid reader will have sussed long before now that it's going to be something!" Alex shouted. "They'll have read the back of the book with the tantalising phrase like, 'and during this investigation he uncovers a hideous secret...' so unless Anthony Horowitz is the worst writer in the world something will happen in there!"

"It might be, um, you look out the window and see a conspiracy happening on the ski slopes." Nomoneypenny lied feebly.

"Just get on with telling the reader how I'm getting to Point Blanc!" Alex scolded her ferociously.

"You're, um, you're going to disguise yourself as the kind of son no rich man would talk about." Nomoneypenny stammered. "Specifically the son of the owner of the super-rich Friend supermarket chain."

"You mean Waitrose." Alex corrected.

"Yes, I do, where the fuck did I get Friend from?" she wondered. "Anyway, we'll airlift you there immediately. You'll stay there, pretending to be Mr. Waitrose's son for a week, then they'll send a chopper to bring you to Point Blanc. Once there, snoop around."

"Gotcha." Alex said absently. "Do I get any cool gadgets, unlike last time?"

"Yes." answered John Cleese, I mean Q, as he walked in. "Look out the window there, I'm especially proud of it. The brand new Ferrari 61 SD, a car with a top speed of 350 miles an hour, acceleration of 0-100 in four seconds, machine-guns behind the headlights, rocket launchers concealed underneath the rolling license plates, guided rocket launching possible out of the boot, submarine capability, radar scrambling, GPS tracking system, beer fridge, weapons compartment, jumping capability, sno-cone machine, invisibility system, direct laser satellite link to MI6, and a sensitive voice-activated self-destruct mechanism. All you have to do is speak these words loudly." He showed Alex a clipboard.

"I can't believe you decided to make the words, 'Q is a hurricane in bed'." Alex spat disgustedly.

Beyond the window the car exploded with great power, sending all four tyres flying each way, liquefying everything within thirty metres and shattering Nomoneypenny's office window, alongside every other window within half a mile. Every car alarm and burglar alarm in a two-mile radius went off, destroying the night quiet even more. After three seconds of absolute pandemonium outside, the roof of the car finally clattered back down onto the road.

"There goes ten billion pounds of taxpayers' money." Nomoneypenny said dryly.

"I chose those words knowing full well no one would ever say them accidentally!" Q roared. "But clearly certain persons are slower than a limbless sloth after it's drank a barrel of 100-proof whisky, had a double lobotomy, been poisoned with ricin and exposed to absolute-zero temperatures!"

Alex turned to Nomoneypenny. "Honestly, are you just going to let him call you that? Fire him, or at least reduce his paycheque!"

Q, I mean John Cleese, groaned. "Fortunately for you, you did not need that car for your mission. Your gadgets were designed and constructed by that man over there, my assistant, S." He pointed at a man standing next to a table. The man was extremely drunk. Alex and Nomoneypenny walked over to him.

"Now," he hiccuped, "this is your run-of-the-mill SA-80 machine-gun, is it not?" He held up the famous 'weapons-jam' rifle used by British soldiers.

"Yes!" said Alex, really liking where this was going.

"But, see, it's not really a rifle at all!" he exclaimed in a quavering voice. "Instead, it's a hair dryer!" He held down the trigger and held it to his own face. Hot air rushed down the barrel.

Alex was speechless.

"But don't call me a genius too soon!" he hollered. "I have another gadget for you! It looks like a grenade, doesn't it? Well, if you say, 'I look like rubbish' right into it, it pops open like so, showing you a mirror and offering a comb!"

"I have to go now," said Alex.

"WHAT?" enquired the man. "But you haven't seen the combat knife that turns into an FM radio, or the landmine that sings 'Don't Worry, Be Happy' instead of exploding, or the pistol loaded with fifty spitballs, or..."

Alex had sprinted away as fast as he could.

* * *

"Well, I guess you'll be doing this mission without gadgets, then," said Nomoneypenny, as Alex exited the limousine at Sir Waitrose's mansion, assuming there is a Sir Waitrose. 

"That's your opinion," said Alex, who had a few dozen objects he'd pinched from MI6 headquarters in his suitcase. Nomoneypenny looked at him strangely, then drove away. Alex started the long walk from the gate to the mansion.

He thought about what had happened at MI6 headquarters after he met the drunken scientist. Within ten minutes of receiving the briefing papers, he'd binned them because he was bored, and gone down to the brothel. He'd immediately run away as a dozen bouncers opened fire at him with AK-47s, and he was then eager to be whisked away to the middle of the countryside. On the way he'd visited a second brothel, but after two minutes it was raided by police toting MP5s and riot shields, so Alex left all of his clothes there except for the one piece of clothing he'd managed to grab off the coat rack as he jumped out the closed window while firing behind him with a Smith Wesson: a bikini bottom. This was excruciatingly tight, but stopped him from being arrested by other cops for public nudity, so he wore it. The driver of the limousine had decided not to lend Alex any of the spare clothes in the trunk, just to be cruel.

He arrived at the door of the mansion and knocked. After several seconds the door was opened by Sir Waitrose himself. He was a fat man with salt-and-pepper hair, was wearing a suit so expensive he was paying 500 a month to insure it against everything including being crushed by a UFO, and had a large suitcase under his arm. He took one look at Alex and slammed the door. Then inside Alex heard someone bellow, "REMEMBER WHEN I SAID NOT TO HIRE ANY MORE STRIPPERS? WELL I MEANT IT!"

There was a clattering of footsteps, and the door was thrust wide by an ugly woman who Alex took to be his wife.

"This isn't the stripper I hired! I mean - what stripper?"

"JUST BECAUSE I'M LEAVING DOESN'T MEAN YOU SHOULD HIRE EVERY ESCORT LISTED IN THE BACK OF _COSMOPOLITAN_!"

"I'm not an escort or a stripper," said Alex. "I'm the MI6 boy who you two are supposed to have known all your life as your son."

Pause.

"Oh."

"Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad."

Sir Waitrose came to life. "Here's a thousand pounds (pushing forward a money clip), go buy yourself some clothes."

* * *

Alex didn't really want to bother buying any clothes. He nicked one of Sir Waitrose's suits, but it was way too big for him, so then he went down to Next. He picked one cheap pair of socks off the rack to buy, then crammed seven pairs of jeans and ten T-shirts into his clothes. He paid for his cheap socks and felt a hand on his arm. The security cameras had seen everything, security was definitely on to his dumbarse scheme, and three security guards had come to quietly take him into custody. Alex threw the till into the first one's chin, kicked the second one away and kneed the third one in the groin. Then he did a quick one-two-three combo into the second one's face (elbow, backhand, wide hook) which left the last of them incapacitated. For fun he pressed the 'No Sale' button on the till and robbed Next of that day's takings, then legged it as best as he could carrying so many clothes he was fatter than the Michelin Man. The taxi he flagged down sped away when it saw two more security guards run after Alex out of Next. So Alex turned and faced them. He warned them to leave. They drew their truncheons. They regretted this when they came out of their comas twenty years later, one of which would permanently have the imprint of his own truncheon across his forehead when Alex whacked him with it so hard. Before then Alex had rapidly fled the scene on foot, running for three and a half hours before arriving back at the house. 

Once there he quickly stashed the clothes. Mrs. Waitrose started screaming that it was time for supper. Alex asked her for the car keys. Mrs. Waitrose screamed he didn't need to go anywhere right now, it was time for supper. Alex ran out of the house and attempted to hot-wire the car, while Mrs. Waitrose screamed that supper was getting cold. Alex realised that he couldn't just pick up the art of hot-wiring by trying half-assedly and abandoned his attempt. As he ran back into the house Mrs. Waitrose said it was good he was coming back inside, it was time for supper. Alex ran past her up the stairs, and she wondered aloud where he was going, it was time for supper. Alex entered the master bedroom hidden in the back of the house and found a set of spare car keys. Alex then ran out of the house, while Mrs. Waitrose AGAIN screamed to come back in as it was time for supper. Alex started the engine and reversed down the half-mile drive and knocked over two sheep and a mountain goat. Then he hit a ram, whose horns took off a hubcap and gashed the metal. Mrs. Waitrose screamed one last time that it was time for supper. Alex drove back up to the house, got out of the car, slapped Mrs. Waitrose twice with each hand, got back in the car, reversed out of the drive, flattened a ewe, and drove off to the brothel. After all, what else would Alex spend money on other than guns, drugs, booze, and bitches?

* * *

Three quarts of vermouth, two one-kilo bags of heroin, two thousand pounds, three prostitutes, one fight with a bouncer and one plate-glass window later, Alex was pretty damn faded and hiding from the cops back at the Waitrose place. He wondered whether or not they'd ever reconstruct that local boxing champion's nose. 

"Alex, are you drunk?" his personal maid enquired. He just about managed to hear this sound above his own pulse. He tried to nod and failed.

"Drink this coffee." she said. Alex did. He drank a whole pot. He then went to piss a Great Lake out the window, and inexplicably felt fairly sober.

"I think I'll go for a swim." Alex said. His voice was astonishingly level, and he didn't slur his words at all.

"Will you be requiring a bathing suit, sir?" she asked politely.

"No." Alex yawned and stripped down to his thong. "I have this. It'll do."

He strolled through the house, marvelling at how when you were sober and not high, paintings didn't actually move or ripple like they were supposed to. He got to the swimming pool, which was twice the size of the massive public one he had near his old house.

In it swam a fit girl about Alex's age, sixteen or seventeen. Her huge tits crammed into a bikini practically formed a shelf, giving Alex the distinct impression that the last time she saw those shapely legs of hers was the last time she did high kicks.

"Oh my God, you're wearing a bikini bottom." she snorted haughtily. "But you've got a cock, so you'll do. You want to do it in the pool, the Jacuzzi, the changing room, the steam room, or in the spectator stands?"

"Excuse me?" Alex said, wondering what the hell was going on. Then the fact that this was a super-slut rammed through his titanium-dense skull. "Right here in the pool!" he called out gleefully, tearing off and throwing aside his thong. Sex-hungry maniac met sex-hungry maniac for the wildest minute and a half of their lives.

* * *

The week passed quite eventfully. When Alex, Fiona (the slut) and her friends went 'hunting', they were all found at the police station wearing nothing but police blankets and handcuffs. One time they both derailed a train for the fun of it. She taught him all she knew about lockpicking. And through the course of the week he banged her forty times. But at the end of it all, it was time to go. 

Alex, Fiona, and Mr. And Mrs. Waitrose (Alex couldn't be arsed to remember their names, and could only remember Fiona's because that's what she screamed during sex) all waited out front as the helicopter landed on the sun deck, fully thirty metres away from the helipad, finely puréeing a parasol and the back of the highest deck chair.

"So, Alex Rider of MI6, who's pretending to be my son!" boomed Mr. Waitrose. "It's time for you to go discover the big conspiracy!"

"How will I communicate with **MI6**?" asked Alex, accidentally saying 'MI6' extra loud.

"How will you communicate with **MI6**?" repeated Mr. Waitrose. "Oh, here's a mobile phone. It has an extra powerful signal machine in it. Not only will it give you a brain tumour much faster than other mobile phones, but also it's powerful enough so anyone owning so much as an FM radio within 500 miles can read it, without the aid of a satellite. And there's no scrambling or other security features, too, so anyone can listen in to your top-secret conversation with **_MI6_**."

A Yeti jumped down from the helicopter. "Alex Waitrose, come into hyar with me," it said. Alex realised with a prolonged shout of raw fear that it was a woman, a very very very very very ugly woman, whose looks were proof of God's occasional cruelty. She far outranked Ursula, Nomoneypenny, and that unnamed German warthog-bitch from the last 'story' in terms of ugliness. Alex started running away from her backwards, stumbled onto his ass, pushed himself backwards with his arms until he reached a rock, then curled into a ball, whimpering.

"Hello, I'm Mrs. Bellendosch." She said. Alex squeaked in fright, still tightly clutching the boulder as though it might serve to protect him from her. "I don't actually have a first name. My parents didn't give me a name. I don't blame them, given that one had an IQ of 60 and the other was a toaster."

"Alex Rider, get off the floor this instant!" shouted Sir Waitrose. "I mean - Alex Waitrose..." he added, checking his watch, twiddling his thumbs, looking up into the sky and whistling a tuneless melody simultaneously. (I know they all contradict each other.)

"Sorry, Sir Waitrose," Alex mumbled. "I mean - dad..." he added, picking up an invisible penny off the ground and pocketing it, while maintaining an impressively crimson face.

"But enough crap. Alex - you're very rebellious towards your parents, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Alex, hastily untucking his shirt, ripping off his tie and undoing all of his buttons, including those on his trousers for good measure. "Yes, they're FUCKING BELLENDS-Sorry," he added quickly, cowering in fear before the multimillionaire.

"Er - I'm deeply unsatisfied with him," Sir Waitrose added, so unconvincingly that even Alex felt compelled to cough "Bullshit!"

Suddenly Fiona ran up to Alex, yanked down his trousers, and started giving him a farewell blowjob.

"You're my daughter!" shrieked Mrs. Waitrose. "Don't just give a stranger a blowjob! At least make sure they actually have twenty quid on them!" She paused. "Especially not an MI6 operative! I mean your brother who's working for MI6! I mean the boy who is going to infiltrate the school on Point Blanc to see what funny activity is going on! I mean Alex Rider! I mean Alex Rider! I mean your brother Alex!" She ran away as fast as she could, tripping over the guy rope of an SAS camouflage tent, ripping it down and revealing the MI6 guy with a listening device. He went deer-in-headlights and scarpered, knocking over a bale of hay and revealing the back-up platoon of SAS soldiers. One of them didn't notice his platoon's cover had been blown and continued with his radio communication to a couple of helicopters who were going to follow Alex's chopper, who in any case were already circling the area like vultures with 'MI6' emblazoned on both sides and the bottom.

"And because you're rebellious," said Mrs. Bellendosch, who was somehow not clueing in to the surreal array of clues before her, "you've been sent to the bad boy's school. So, come with me, Alex."

Still slightly scared of her, Alex followed her into the helicopter. She strapped into the pilot's seat and took off.

* * *

Ten minutes later Alex and Mrs. Bellendosch were forced to eject when she drove the thing into a tailspin. They took the rest of the journey by plane.

* * *

The plane landed. In the loosest possible sense of the word. The landing gear was sanded off, the plane performed a spectacular 720 spin, and when the wing dug into the tarmac it stayed there as the plane 'taxied' to a stop half a mile away. 

Two minutes after the plane came to rest, the door was roughly knocked off its hinges by a bodybuilder. Cannabis smoke, crack smoke and heroin smoke wafted out. A naked stewardess half-heartedly pressed the button to inflate the emergency slide. It didn't inflate, however, because earlier someone had burned a huge hole into the slide when they accidentally dropped a flaming stick into its separate compartment.

To say the least, the journey had been interesting. Alex had immediately set fire to a few tens of thousands of pounds' worth of drugs. This made everyone a little more lively than normal. When the man juggling flaming batons had dropped one of his batons, he had shrugged and continued juggling his batons one-handed, occasionally throwing one to the fire-breather at the other end of the plane. In one corner of Economy someone had set up a disco with a portable stereo, in another corner someone had set up a ten-man poker tournament with a minimum bet of 100, the rest of Economy was a stripclub/whorehouse, in the First Class section four rich people were playing Russian roulette with a revolver that a Saddam loyalist had lent them, in the Business section someone had started a game of badminton, and in the cockpit the pilot, copilot and navigator had been crammed into the storage locker by a pair of mongooses who had escaped from the cargo hold, and who were also flying the plane. Only three people died (two from overdoses, one in Russian roulette), and otherwise there were no injuries.

People began sliding down the other inflatable slides the plane had. Every person soon came to the same conclusion: they hadn't landed at Paris International, but instead, far more illegally, they had landed right smack in the middle of the Champs Elysées. As a general rule the passengers were delighted that they wouldn't have to sit through the two-hour-plus immigration queues (especially the Saddam loyalists and members of the Italian Mafia on board) and so worked as fast as possible to break open the luggage compartment to fetch their suitcases and run away. Most of them, including Alex and Mrs. Bellendosch, managed it. They hailed a cab together and drove to their hotel.

* * *

They went in through the ornate front door. The snooty man at the front desk smiled at them falsely as they walked past to the lifts. 

"Erm, don't we have to check in?" Alex asked.

"No." she replied. "Point Blanc Academy owns this hotel. We bring every member of the Academy to this hotel so we can photograph-" Here she stopped herself. Alex didn't notice anything strange. "So that's why the clerk knows me."

"I see." Alex said absently, and pocketed a crystal decoration from the fireplace mantle worth £2. They walked into the lift, went to the second floor and got out. Mrs. Bellendosch led him to the door of Room 13. She gave him the key, told him supper was in twenty minutes and walked away. Alex noticed the chalk outline of a foot under the door.

Alex unlocked and pushed open the door to his room. He saw that the chalk outline of a foot connected with the rest of the outline of a body on the floor of his room. Next to it was another body outline, and another... Alex counted: more than thirty body outlines. Three ran onto the wall from the floor, and one was completely on the wall. He shrugged and dumped his stuff onto the floor. He readied the pistol in his shoulder holster, the real SA-80 in his bag, the M16/M203 combo in his bag, the two Uzis in his bag, and the two Berettas in his bag. He also ensured that his millions of gadgets were still intact. Then he went down to supper.

Mrs. Bellendosch was already in the restaurant, wearing a revealing evening gown. Alex immediately barfed on the floor, where he saw that the waiter had already shared his sentiments. Then he sat down, wiping his mouth with a napkin and keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his empty bread plate.

The waiter came, barfed on the floor, took their orders, barfed again, and left. Alex kept his eyes riveted to his empty plate until the waiter finally came back.

"Here is your snail salad, madame," he said. He made the mistake of looking her in the eye and barfed again. "And here is your steak, rare." He left.

Alex looked at her meal. The snails were still alive. He looked at his 'steak'. It was a bowl of blood. He pushed it aside, took out a Mars bar, and stuffed it down his throat.

"Alex, it is good food!" said Mrs Bellendosch in consternation. "Eat it!"

"Go fuck yourself with a cattle prod," Alex said.

"Already have," she said.

Alex retched noisily onto the table.

"At least have something to drink." she pleaded.

"Fine." Alex sighed. He signalled the waiter. "I'll have a pint of ethanol, please."

"But sir," the waiter said respectfully, "no drinks manufacturer sells pure ethanol. It is instantly lethal."

"Ah, I'm used to it." Alex told him loudly. "If I'm teetotal the night before I can get through three pints. But my local pub does have to buy it in gross from a chemicals manufacturer, yes. I just thought that a high-class place like this would have some."

"I'm sure you have some somewhere." Mrs. Bellendosch shot a meaningful look at the waiter, who caught it and then vomited again at having seen her ugly mug.

"So I'll go get some then." he said sarcastically. He walked off to the kitchens.

Twenty minutes later he came back with a glass of yellowish liquid. He placed it in front of Alex, then got in a position to catch Alex if he fell off the chair and waited expectantly.

"Erm, waiter?" Alex said. "There's a half-empty syringe in my ethanol."

"Is there?" the waiter said. "Must have dropped it." The waiter fished it out. He then squeezed the remainder of the yellowish liquid into the glass, then resumed his catching position.

"I thought ethanol was colourless." Alex remarked to no-one in particular. He downed it in one go. He burped. "Hey, all that was was watered-down one-year-old cheap bourbon with a funny aftertaste for no reason!" he accused the waiter. He hiccuped and keeled over sideways, the waiter managing to catch him and drag him out of the restaurant.

* * *

Ten minutes later Alex was in a hidden underground lab under the hotel. Mrs. Bellendosch and a few scientists were crowded around Alex's naked body, lying inert on an examination table. 

"It's incredible," said one of the scientists to Mrs. Bellendosch in French. "He's only fifteen years old, but he has every STD known to man, has the liver of an eighty-year-old hard drinker, and has the lungs of an eighty-year-old chain smoker! Plus we found about twenty grand worth of drugs on his person and another million worth in his bag!"

"And enough guns to arm the Palestinian Liberation Organisation." came the strangled voice of one of his co-workers.

"Well, we can't have any drugs or weapons in the Academy." Mrs. Bellendosch said. "He might die of an overdose with the drugs and he might successfully rebel with the guns. Obviously I can't just take them, then he'll realise that we've drugged him and searched him."

"Won't he realise anyway because one minute he's sitting in a restaurant and the next minute he's -"

"I think the best thing to do would be to pretend it all perishes in a mysterious fire." She said, ignoring the scientist.

"What? The best thing to do would be to disable all the guns and replace all the drugs with similar-looking powders, he'll think the problem will be with the suppliers if they're new and simple loss of durability if they're old."

"Yes, it's the only way." she concluded out loud. She took her half-smoked cigar from between her lips and threw it into the bin. Several seconds later there was a tinny whump as some paper inside caught light.

"I think the only reason you chose this half-arsed method was because you felt like starting a fire, ya friggin pyro." accused a scientist as he pressed the button to send Alex back up to his room.

* * *

As Mrs. Bellendosch tried to coax Alex out the door of the hotel, he was bawling uncontrollably. 

"All those drugs... DESTROYED!" he wailed. "All that alcohol... WASTED!... I wish I was wasted!"

"It's okay, Alex," she said. "You won't miss them, drugs aren't allowed in the Academy..."

"Drugs were never allowed at my school, but they never searched our bags," sniffed Alex.

"Well, we do search your bags," she said.

"You do?" said Alex in genuine surprise. He sniffed and said, "Oh, I get your game. Is one kilo enough?" He took out a kilo of heroin from his person.

"...NO!" she said. "They're not allowed!"

"I hear you," he said, holding out a smaller bag as well. "Fifteen hundred grammes."

"NO!"

He put away the smaller bag and got out another kilo bag.

"NO!" she screamed. She frisked him (causing him to throw up on her) and took away his remaining five and a half kilos of heroin, his eight soaps of cannabis, and his three bottles of Scotch. But somehow she missed his MP5K, two Makharov 7 SDs, two Desert Eagles and one Magnum .357 revolver.

"Now, they're sending another helicopter to pick us up and bring us to Point Blanc." she said sternly. "Until then, you will need to buy some more clothes and toiletries and things."

"Erm, yes, clothes." Alex said slyly. "Ooooh! There's a good shop!" He immediately sprinted into a random nearby shop.

"But that sells antique cutlery!" Mrs. Bellendosch cried, bewildered. "Wait for me!" She then charged into the place like a rhino, swinging her arms like a gorilla.

Meanwhile Alex closed and locked the employee toilet door in the back. He then opened the window, kicked out the sash, jumped out the ground-floor window (or _rez-de-chausée fenêtre_), ran down the alley, and stopped suddenly at the sight of a man in a trenchcoat.

"Do you speak English?" he pleaded. He had pretended to learn French while his uncle Ian Rider had been alive, but in fact he had skived every French class at school by hiring someone to take his identity and his classes for him.

"Yez, I zpek Eng-lish," he said. "You wan zome drug?"

* * *

After ten minutes of haggling Alex returned to the open window. He climbed back in, taking care not to drop any of the one hundred and eighty-five thousand pounds worth of drugs out of his pockets, closed the window, flushed the toilet and opened the door. 

"Wow, that was a huge shit I just took!" Alex exclaimed, successfully pretending that he was genuinely surprised.

"I banged on the door and yelled at you!" Mrs. Bellendosch screamed.

"Did you? Sorry, I didn't hear you because I was grunting so loud." Alex said breezily and ran past her.

"There are no clothes in this store!" she hollered at his back.

"Oh, you're right, my mistake." Alex said with a deadpan face. "Well, the chopper will be arriving soon, so we'd better just go and quickly buy some clothes."

They then went into the French version of Next, where Alex declined purchasing anything but shoplifted a few wardrobe-fulls. Here, the security did catch him again, but instead of trying to arrest him they just asked for 50 percent. The helicopter arrived, Alex forbade Mrs. Bellendosch to pilot it, and they set off for Point Blanc.

* * *

The helicopter set down on the crudely painted and constructed helipad, which was so bumpy it was almost as though it was deliberately so. The rest of the 'château' on Point Blanc was similarly crap; its uneven wings, its tilting battlements, its concave courtyard, its cracked front doors which were constantly ajar because the doorframe was a rhombus-like pentagon, they all looked like they had been constructed by very unwilling slaves and mentally disabled kids on work experience. It unerringly gave the viewer the distinct, correct impression that this place was one seriously fucked-up shithole. 

"Welcome," Mrs. Bellendosch shouted over the sound of the rotors winding down, "to the place you will be dying in over the next few weeks - I mean, living in, heh heh heh." She gave a weak, suspiciously hearty smile and walked. Alex might have noticed this subtle clue if in the past half hour he hadn't been forced to watch Mrs. Bellendosch change into a ski suit in the cramped helicopter compartment. He had hurled twice and currently was looking ashen grey, stumbling about and grabbing onto anything at hand for support; with the slightest addition to his disgust he would definitely blow chunks for about the fifteenth time in the past two days. Mrs. Bellendosch accidentally dropped her radio, she bent to pick it up and Alex lost control of his stomach muscles yet again.

He gingerly climbed off the helicopter in his city clothes. He had spent too much time retching to get changed. He walked in the general direction that Mrs. Bellendosch had gone and wandered into a forklift truck face-first. He went down, then got up again.

He entered the building, which had the heating on at 60ºC. Unfortunately the building had been built so badly that some of the heat left through invisible cracks in the walls, mostly through the visible and really obvious cracks in the walls, and a lot through the gaping holes in the walls where someone had stumbled into it or an aged window had simply broken free from the wall. Hence the whole place was freezing cold everywhere except for about two metres away from the radiator, and half a metre away from one it was unbearably hot. So anyone wanting to be a comfortable temperature without being packaged in thick snowsuits had to stand inside the half-donut of comfortable temperature around one of the several working radiators, as long as the floor and walls near them weren't clearly plague-filled, or there weren't any packs of mutated carnivorous rodents nearby.

"I'd sooner live in the House of the Dead." Alex informed Mrs. Bellendosch. "It carries the same discomfort and risk of death, but at least there it's always just a rainy summer evening instead of a constant freezing snowstorm. Why the fuck does this deplorable, inhospitable hellhole cost ten thousand pounds a term? Not even the kids from Lemony Snickett's 'A Series of Unfortunate Events' lived in a sty like this, and when they were at the Austere Academy they kipped in a crab-infested crumbling wooden shack."

Mrs. Bellendosch swelled up indignantly, making her look like an iguana, except uglier, bigger and uglier. "The chateau of Point Blanc is very well-built and among the finest works of art in the world! Do not dare insult it, and certainly don't call it a pigsty, else feel my wrath!"

"Well-built?" Alex snorted incredulously. He head-butted the wall, causing great chunks of rubbery masonry to cascade down. He didn't even feel any pain. "Art?" He laughed out loud. "My utility room looks better than this dump. And I didn't mean sty as in pigsty, I meant the especially ugly eye infection thingy."

Mrs. Bellendosch shrieked belligerently, snatched a support rod from inside a crumbling load-bearing wall, and charged at Alex. He reacted with his usual blinding agility, yanking his silenced Makharovs from his inside pocket and firing each one into her torso. She stumbled, then shouted louder and ran forward. Scared, Alex raised them higher and fired two rounds into each of her eyes. She dropped the rod and fell backwards, clearly dead.

"Hein? Madame Bellendosch?" a concerned guard called to Mrs. Bellendosch. He ran forwards and looked surprised when Alex shot him as well. His friend then came round the corner, oblivious, and Alex upped his maximum sentence for the crimes of that night up to three life sentences. He then reloaded the nine-bullet clips.

Five minutes later, all the corpses had been stuffed into the helicopter on the helipad. The pilot, copilot and helicopter guards had been nearby, so it wasn't hard to murder the four of them and stuff them in the back of the chopper. Alex had had to murder two more guards when they came around on patrol and saw him transporting bodies, and their corpses were added to the pile. Alex located several barrels of fuel for the helicopter, opened the one which wasn't frozen, and inundated the back compartment with the shit. Then he took the two flare guns from the copter's emergency survival pack, kept one, and fired the other into the back of the copter. After one second of it bouncing around fizzing and sparking in the back, the fuel caught light, and the helicopter exploded four seconds later.

The pandemonium was pretty bad, but Alex spent the whole time using some truly abysmal lies to explain to other guards why he wasn't hurt and why nobody got off the helicopter when it had landed five minutes before, or why four random guards had decided to join the original crew for no reason to be cremated. However, they were fooled. As long as the food kept coming at mealtimes, the paychecks kept coming every Friday and the strippers kept coming every evening, these guards didn't give a shit what happened.

* * *

Alex teamed up with the one kid in the place who wasn't an extreme conformist. They shared information, then Alex gave him one of his silenced Makharovs and he stormed the place from the inside. The guards were so terrible at their jobs that every one of them was murdered by Alex without getting off a shot themselves. Then finally he found the secret passage to Dr. Grief's secret cloning lab. Oh, sorry, I've written this part of the story so fast that I forgot to mention that the headmaster of the school is named Grief, who always wears frilly pink glasses, pink jeans and a pink shirt with the words 'I'M GAY!' in bold red lettering. Anyway, back up to when Alex meets Grief for the first time. 

Grief looked up from his book entitled 'Illegal Cloning and You!' and gave a startled shout.

"You fucking fag," said Alex.

Suddenly the publisher ran in. "Hold it!" he yelled. "I'm spending my money to print this book, so follow my rules, asshole! You can't use the word 'fag'! Got it?"

"We must have used the word 'fuck' a dozen times in this book and 'shit' twice as often, but we can't say 'fag'?" said Alex in mild disbelief.

"That's right," said the publisher. "We can't go around insulting homosexuals."

"Fuck you, you bastard bellend-biting back-door bandit." Alex spat back in alliterative rebellion.

"That is also offensive to gay people!" the publisher shrieked. "Also to the offspring of single mothers!"

"I'll say what I want when I want." Alex growled. "Shit-stabbing nigger rapist veggie grannies deserve death, for example."

"This story can't be published, then!" the publisher howled threateningly.

"No non-desperate publisher would ever publish this horrifying mess of a story anyway." Alex replied. He then bitch-slapped the publisher and booted him out of the window over a 600-foot cliff.

"What can I do for you, then, Alex Waitrose?" Grief asked in honeyed tones. Like, super-honeyed tones, the tones of a paedophile.

"Um, I'm the new student." Alex said awkwardly, his gun hand wanting to draw and murder this fag so badly that he was having to physically grab it with the other hand.

"It's such a fantastic pleasure to meet you! Truly astonishingly delightful! This moment is absolutely positively saturated with pure happiness!" Grief gushed in revolting exaggerated friendliness. Alex was hauling back with all his might on his gun hand, which was straining forwards perceptibly.

"Yes, it's wonderful." Alex replied in a strained voice. "May I sit down?"

"Only if you can promise that your - ahem - I'm sorry to use this word - _posterior_ - is absolutely positively one-hundred-percent germ-free, and you swear you won't crease the Pleather, and you assure me that you will not move it -"

Here Alex stopped pulling back on his main gun hand and drew guns with both hands. His left hand pulled out his MP5K, with which he first shot the bodyguard behind Grief by inaccurately spraying most of a clip at him, then aiming the rest at Grief's nads. His right hand, his main gun hand, took out the Magnum. He aimed carefully and fired once.

The bullet slammed into Grief dead centre in his upper torso, getting caught in Grief's spine, aiding to propel him even further. Grief seemed to be yanked backwards by some incredible force, first sailing five feet backwards in his pink pleather chair, then toppling out of it and rolling a good ten feet before coming to a stop. Alex was surprised when he saw a very convincing mask slip off his face to reveal none other than Ian Rosotti.

Alex glanced at Risso's now-bloodstained copy of 'Illegal Cloning and You!'.

"I wonder whether or not he was doing anything illegal here." Alex mused aloud.

Suddenly he heard the running footsteps of a dozen shit-scared patrolmen for the second time that day.

"Oh, fuck." he muttered to himself. Quickly he threw the MP5K out the same window the publisher dropped out of and stuffed his Magnum back into his jacket.

The door burst open. "What in the name of Hell's impotent attack-camels happened up in here?"

"Erm, this man came in saying he was a publisher and shot these two bastards to death, then jumped out the window." Alex lied.

"Do you think we're stupid?" the guard screamed.

"Yes -" Alex began.

"We're not going to just ignore the fact that already today something very very suspicious has happened near you!" the man hollered, not listening.

"I was." said one of his co-workers gormlessly.

"I'm serious!" Alex scolded him so unconvincingly that God was momentarily astounded and accidentally passed a fart he'd been trying to hide from the people in Heaven for the past three millenia. "Go to the bottom of that cliff and you're guaranteed to find a corpse and a weapon!"

"Fine, I will." the guard leered at Alex. He turned to two other guards. "Confine him to quarters."

"Which quarters?" one of them asked. "Our quarters, their normal quarters, the duplicate quarters where their secret clones copy every movement to learn their habits, or the secret basement quarters where we keep the ones who've been replaced alre-"

"Their's!" the guard screamed, eyes popping.

"What, the normal ones or the duplicate ones where their illegal clones -"

"The fuckin normal ones, you mangy compilation of cancerous rat semen!" the guard howled, still trying to stop Alex from hearing the truth.

"What's a compilation?"

"Just fuck off!"

Alex didn't notice anything abnormal. This was so incapacitatingly funny for the dead people watching from Heaven and Hell that the 12 disciples all farted in unison as they rolled around screaming on the marble floors and the demons in Hell bashed their heads against the wall as they howled and became so unresponsive that for the first time ever there was an escape from Hell.

* * *

Alex sat in his quarters, Magnum in hand, being bored. He still had one of his silenced Makharovs, as did James Sprintz (his ally). Both had less than a clip left for it, however. Alex also had a grenade and a 66 (a one-shot disposable rocket launcher). Plus he had the two disassembled halves of an SA-80, which he had screwed together and was now lying across his lap. (Exactly why the guards didn't search him, I have no idea.) 

Alex finally got pissed off with playing patience with a pack of cards, so he shot off the hinges of the door with his Magnum, ran into the corridor, shot the two guards outside his door, ran back into his room, put away the Magnum, readied the SA-80, and ran. Once out of the corridor, he met twenty soldiers with their own SA-80s raised. Alex raised his gun and pulled the trigger at the same time that all the guards pulled their triggers.

Every one of the twenty-one SA-80s jammed.

People ejected clips and inserted new ones, moved the parts manually, smashed the guns into the wall, but nothing worked, they were all fucked up. As one everyone dropped their guns and went for their backup guns. Alex took out his grenade, switched the fuse to 2 seconds, took off the ring-pin and the latch, threw it and ducked behind a potted plant. Just as all the troops got their pistols to bear on Alex, it went off, killing eighteen of them. Alex jumped up, Magnum in hand, and killed the last two soldiers with a shot to the head.

Alex then ran up the stairs and found James' room. He began talking as he reloaded the weapon. "Quick, James, I'm MI6, I've just killed all the guards, we need to either go and find the evidence of a conspiracy or at least plant the evidence of a conspiracy so Nomoneypenny won't fire me!"

James somehow looked absolutely gobsmacked, having no clue beforehand what Alex was talking about. "Uh - sure. You got a gun for me?"

"I gave one to you two nights ago!" exploded Alex.

"Er - right." James mumbled and began searching around his room. "Erm - I've forgotten where I left it."

"In the safe, dipshit." Alex said slowly and clearly, as though talking to a retard.

At long last, James found his own hidden safe again, under the bed behind a wad of dirty clothes. He paused. "D'you know, I've forgotten the combination."

"Even I know the combination." Alex gasped. "It's your fagging birthday."

"Oh - right." James took three tries to put in the three-number combination, getting the day number wrong three times. "Ah, my silenced gun." he said feebly.

"Let's go, then." Alex snorted and turned around. Suddenly instinct gripped him, and he dropped to the ground while pivoting round and shot James between the eyes in midair, throwing him out the window, while James' bullets passed harmlessly over Alex's head.

"What the fuck happened there?" Alex wondered. He pocketed James' silenced Makharov and ran back down the stairs into the library.

"Cool suit of armour." Alex said aloud, glancing at one inside a small alcove. The little buttons on the side caught Alex's eye. They looked slightly out of place on a suit of armour, especially since they read, in descending order, 'Call lift, send lift to basement, scan lift for people, scan lift for metal.' Also there seemed to be an LCD display on the visor of the armour, which read, 'Lift currently at 3rd floor.'

"Hmmm. Better not touch that." Alex said aloud. He then turned around to leave, lost his balance on the uneven stones on the floor of the alcove, and in regaining his balance he accidentally hit the 'call lift' button with his flailing gun stock.

A loud whirring he'd been hearing behind the armour stopped a second after he pressed the button. Then the suit of armour split neatly in two and moved aside. Beyond was a small room containing two soldiers.

Alex pointed his Magnum at the two soldiers, who had their weapons slung over their backs and their backs facing him. "Don't move!" Alex screamed.

The two looked round. They stopped what they were doing and turned round, hands up. Alex looked behind them and realised they'd been restraining James Sprintz.

"Aaaaaagghh! The undead!" Alex shrieked and executed James with one round to the mouth.

"Er, no," a guard said in a condescending tone. "If the other James Sprintz has been found dead, then that's one of Dr. Grief's personal clones who's had plastic surgery to look like James Sprintz. We were just going to put this one in the holding cells in the secret basement as an insurance policy if anything went wrong. You've just murdered the actual James Sprintz. You stupid fuck."

"Well fuck you!" Alex howled and blew away both the guards. He reloaded the Magnum, pocketed it, took the guards' SA-80s, threw one over his back, and readied the other. He dragged the three corpses into an upright position in the lift to act as bullet stoppers, then crouched behind the bodies and hit the button inside the lift marked _sous-sol_, which he assumed would take him to the secret basement because it was the lowest button of the five.

The lift doors closed, there was ten seconds of earth-shaking whirring, then the lift doors opened. Alex peered over his leaking, organic bullet shield and saw two guys with flamethrowers, one guy with three disposable RPG-22s, four guys with SA-80s like his, two guys with AK-47s, and one guy walled in by sandbags behind an FN MAG heavy machine-gun. Alex swore loudly when he saw comprehension immediately dawn on their gormless faces and squeezed the trigger. The weapon managed to fire one round before jamming, and Alex immediately threw away the gun. This round ricocheted off the gas tank of one of the flamethrowers, puncturing it. The gas began escaping its prison with an earsplitting whistle. Its owner instinctively threw the weapon away from himself and legged it. So did the owner of the other flamethrower. The bloke with the RPGs ran away but unwisely held on to all his burdensome gear. When the gas finally reached the hot, expended SA-80 bullet, it caught light, and three thousandths of a second later the entire gas tank detonated, cremating its owner, the man with the RPGs, and three of the people with SA-80s. Then the abandoned flamethrower and RPGs also caught fire and exploded from the fireball this released, which killed the last guy with an SA-80 and one of the people with AKs, and severely burned the other AK-dude. The weaponless person who formerly owned a flamethrower sprinted back up the corridor, looking for a gun to try and fight this intruder with or at least something heavy to hit him with.

Meanwhile the bastards with an AK and FN MAG started pounding rounds into the lift, not being able to see very well because of all the smoke but knowing where the enemy lay. This sustained fire forced Alex to duck down. The rounds were going clear through James' body, into one of the guards and getting caught in him, with the occasional bullet passing through him as well and managing to get all the way into the second guard. Alex just hugged the floor and waited for a lull so he could fight back.

The badly burned man with the AK expired his second clip into Alex's cover without having any clue what he was hitting and reloaded. He signalled at the machine-gunner madly about his intention. As well as the fact the machine-gunner wasn't paying attention, the man with the AK was mixing up the signals for 'cover me' and 'I'm low on ammo.' So it was completely ineffective. Thinking he'd gotten through to the man, he ducked down low, ran under the stream of fire from the machine-gun and made his way over to the lift. Once there he pointed his AK into the lift and held down the trigger without even looking around the corner.

The machine-gunner was jumpy and didn't have a clue what was going on. He was just determined to keep firing at 'them' through the opaque smoke until he ran out of ammo. So when he suddenly saw a figure just outside the lift firing a weapon, he didn't think twice. Because of the muzzle flash of his own weapon he hadn't seen his comrade run over to the lift, so in his mind that bastard must have just suicidally stepped out of the lift. He was half-right. It was suicidal. For a full three seconds he redirected his fire at the figure outside the lift and utterly massacred his co-worker, comrade and friend.

Alex wasn't idle during this lull. He opened his 66 disposable anti-tank rocket, flicked off the safety catch, sat up, aimed at the origin of the continuous stream of fire, and clicked the trigger. The whoosh of the rocket was as loud as an aircraft engine because it was held so close to his ear. In half of a second it had travelled the ten feet to the target, roughly a thirtieth of its designed maximum range, and struck the wall of the barricade with two hundred kilometres an hour of velocity. Then the two-kilo warhead exploded, killing the gunner instantly from the shockwave and shredding his head afterwards from the shrapnel, and causing most of his sandbag barricade to tumble outwards and downwards.

And then there was silence.

Alex gingerly got up, cocking his SA-80. He walked out of the lift and looked around. It was a circular room which had contained all this, only about five feet in diameter, with only one badly-lit hallway coming off it. Alex stood next to the corner, preparing, then stuck his weapon and one eye around the corner. The hallway was empty and reminiscent of the hallways on the Death Star in Star Wars: A New Hope.

Suddenly the flame-thrower person lunged around a thick pipe and swung a fire extinguisher. Alex blocked it with his SA-80, stopped pushing with one hand and rammed forward with the other, making the stock sneak around the fire extinguisher and whack the opponent in the face, then hit him in the face three more times, knocking him down. Alex splashed the laser sight onto centre mass and pulled the trigger. It jammed. He dropped the SA-80, prepared his Magnum and blew the man away.

Alex started down the corridor, walking slowly. He came to a jail cell with one of the kids inside it. He moved on. He came to several other cells, each one with a student in it. At the far end of the corridor was a jail cell with Han Solo and Chewbacca in it.

"Last time I visit my home planet again," grumbled Han.

Alex looked at him strangely, then quickly released all the prisoners. They followed him down the corridor and into the lift, which took them back to the surface. When the lift doors opened, however, they were surprised to find themselves not in the library, but on some huge balcony in the mountains.

"What the hell?" said Han.

"Rrrrrrooaar!" agreed Chewbacca.

To their right someone wearing sunglasses and a black trenchcoat shoulder-barged through a door and stopped very quickly.

"Shit!" he yelled and got out a mobile phone. He punched one number and held it to his ear. "...Yeah, where am I?... No shit!" He then jumped hard and flew away like Superman.

Alex and the rest of the people walked out of the elevator, most of them shivering because their winter clothing had been taken from them. Once the whir of the lift doors had died down, they were able to hear distant voices.

"...did it never occur to you that HE'S part of the conspiracy too? WHAT were you thinking?"

"Shut the fuck up, you dickless midget cyclops! I goddamn see my mistake!"

"You just don't fucking get it! This is all your fault, Sully!"

"I do get it! You're screaming too much!"

"No you don't get it! This is YOUR FAULT! This is YOUR FAULT! This is YOUR FAULT!"

Then there was the sound of something wooden and heavy being smashed into something soft and sinewy, a squeal, then a large eyeball with stick-like green arms and legs came sailing over the peak of the mountain and landed with a cringe-inducing crunch on the stone floor next to the stone wall that was the edge of the balcony.

Suddenly James Bond skied past the balcony at high speed. Four weird fan machines with parachutes flew past. The drivers of the machines opened fire with some machine-guns. Everyone ran to the balcony wall to get a better look at the chase. Through either some unreal amount of luck or witchcraft, James Bond, who looked remarkably like Pierce Brosnan, avoided getting shot, blown up by the machines' grenades, and avoided getting run over. And due to some unbelievable stunts, he even managed to blow up every single one of them, without ever getting out a gun himself.

Alex looked back in the lift and saw the floor indicator. "Oh, that's the problem!" he exclaimed. "We got out on the roof!" Everyone piled back into the elevator, shivering violently, and went to the first floor. They got out, collected ski suits from the guards' quarters, and went outside in search of a way to escape. Nomoneypenny was already waiting for them on the helipad with four armed SAS soldiers.

"Quick, Alex!" she said. "How many guards are there? Where are they?"

"None, I killed them all," said Alex.

"Really?" she said, shocked. "I should call off the group about to storm the building, then."

As she brought up her walkie-talkie, thirty flashbangs went off inside the building, at least five separate doors were blown open with explosives, two others were blown off their hinges with Remington shotguns, and well over fifty tear gas canisters were fired into the building's many windows and gaping holes in its walls.

The building, under such a fearsome beating, completely collapsed.

"Ah, damn," she said. "Too late."

"Holy shit, there's the terrorists!" yelled an SAS soldier and murdered all the rich peoples' sons. Then he ran over, and was about to pump a round into each of their heads so they wouldn't come back to life and blow someone away with a concealed weapon, when he saw who they really were. He gulped. "Misfire!" he yelled.

"Fair enough," said Nomoneypenny.

Alex felt she was wrong, but he didn't give a shit. He allowed himself to be led into a helicopter and flown away.

* * *

"What you did was so illegal that even an Iraqi court of law would find you guilty of human rights abuse," said Nomoneypenny. She was debriefing Alex in her office. "Do you realise that you don't even have a license to _hurt_ people in the name of the law, let alone massacre a building full of people with stolen silenced weapons?" 

"Yes," said Alex. "And I don't give a shit."

She stared at him. "Within the government, such a crime can be punished by torturing you to death with medieval and ancient Asiatic methods, or even-" she shuddered, "-being forced to become Tony Blair's servant."

"Holy shit!" said Alex, jumping back.

"But since you're the only child agent we have, you'll have to stay on," she said.

"Good," he grinned. "Now give me my after-op bonus."

She obligingly gave him a key. He yelped for joy and quickly ran to the weapons storage area. He opened his new locker. It contained three cruise missiles confiscated from Iraq loaded onto a Jeep. He made a mental note to sell them for two hundred and eighty grand each (the other MI6 agents who had been paid with missiles had done a bit of useful price-fixing) on Friday. Then he closed the locker and headed for the compliant stripclub that was a block away from MI6 HQ.


End file.
